


headlines and flash flash flash photography

by paperclipbitch



Category: Game of Thrones RPF
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Ficathon, First Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 10:41:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m pretty sure this counts as trolling, you know,” Emilia remarks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	headlines and flash flash flash photography

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Misprinting (misprinting)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misprinting/gifts).



> Written for misprinting's prompt - _dating for publicity ("i don't kiss on the lips for money")_ \- over at [this superfun ficathon](http://ivoryandgold.livejournal.com/50034.html). Title from _'The Take Over, The Breaks Over'_ by FOB. I hope this isn't hopelessly OOC...

“I’m pretty sure this counts as trolling, you know,” Emilia remarks, all legs and eyeliner and a really, _really_ nice dress, so much so that it takes Kit a moment to register what she’s saying.

“‘Trolling’?” he echoes, and Emilia laughs, the laugh he knows from photoshoots and promotional interviews but not from facing one another before a camera because Jon and Dany have never met and maybe never will. They’ve never actually acted together, one of those things that catches in Kit’s lungs from time to time, when his scenes involve trudging through ice and Emilia’s show her golden and bleached and sunlit, polarised.

Kit has maybe a tendency to overthink things, even with Emilia slipping her heels on, tossing her hair, and giving him an expression that’s nothing short of challenging.

“Fake-dating,” she says, deliberately making it over-patronising, fluttering false eyelashes, though her perpetual smile is tugging at her lips anyway, “it’s mostly to make the fans explode one way or the other, you know this. So: trolling.”

Kit can’t actually remember what sparked _this_ ; half dare, half bet, it’s possibly Richard’s fault, a drunken Comic Con promise or something they told the producers they’d do for this event and nothing more, well, possibly something more.

His phone beeps; John, telling him that he and Rose are downstairs already, they have a car to get into, has Kit chickened out already, and he can hear the laugh behind the words, a joke they’re all in on. Maybe Emilia has a point.

“You’re making your Jon Snow face,” Emilia tells him, and Kit makes an effort to hoist something else onto his face, something that hopefully looks more like a smile.

“It’s actually just my face,” he tells her to make her grin, murmur something about _method acting_ , and he pushes himself up from where he’s been perched on the edge of the bed waiting for Emilia to decide that she’s ready.

“Your tie’s wonky,” she says, smoothing the lapels of his jacket with light, competent hands, straightening his tie for him, and she realises the cliché at the same time Kit does, a giggle peeling out of her mouth even as she rolls her eyes at both of them. Even in her heels she’s tiny, and for some reason this all seemed like a better idea when the others were around, cheerfully clamouring tips and ideas and the possibilities of hilariously incriminating photographs. Now, Emilia’s looking at him thoughtfully and Kit doesn’t know what she’s reading in his face.

“Well,” he says at last, wondering if there’s an open bar later and hoping like hell that there is, “tonight should be interesting.”

Emilia grins, all teeth and bright lipstick and it’s familiar and yet a different smile when it’s just them in a hotel room about to go on something that isn’t a date but that might look like one on the outside, if they do this properly.

_You’re a loser_ , Rose texts him, making Kit jump, _and hurry up omg._

Emilia liberates Kit’s phone from him, taps in: _boo you whore x_

“You should’ve done this with Rose,” Kit remarks.

Emilia nods. “She’d be better at it than you are,” she tells him, adds: “It’s some handholding and some photographs, I’m not about to murder your grandmother.”

“No kissing?” Kit asks, before he can stop himself. Well. He doesn’t try very _hard_ to stop himself, admittedly. 

Emilia rolls her Holly Golightly eyes and says: “I don’t kiss on the lips for money.” 

“That still gives me rather a lot of options,” Kit reminds her, and Emilia arches an eyebrow almost quicker than he can follow.

It’s an Emilia he knows and doesn’t know and something must alter in his face because her hands slip back to his shoulders, no longer tidying his suit but just resting there, heavy and light.

That’s about all the warning he gets. Emilia has to press herself up on her toes, even in her shoes, and his hands drop to her waist to steady her even as he dips his head to catch the kiss he’s only half-certain she’s about to give him. It’s an elastic moment, one where he can feel that neither of them are entirely sure what’s about to happen, whether it’ll all be laughed and shoved away in a second, unfinished, incomplete, or, well, what ends up being the second option.

There’s nothing hesitant in the way Emilia kisses, nothing fragile or thoughtful or mindful of the lipstick he listened to her applying, humming, in the bathroom, while he sat on the bed like this was a real moment between real people instead of a council of war for an idea planted in their heads by someone who Kit was too drunk to recall in the morning. He thinks there’s a half-laugh trapped between their mouths, can almost taste it in the press of Emilia’s tongue to his, curling like a promise or, again, a dare, and Kit’s never going drinking with Peter _again_. Emilia’s teeth nip his lower lip, swift and sharp, and he pulls back first like they both knew he would.

Kit’s phone pings again and he doesn’t hear it. Emilia’s eyes are bright and unreadable, something amused in them, something solidly _not_. She steps back, running quick fingers through her hair, where Kit didn’t touch it long enough to mess it up. Detachedly, he reflects that they haven’t even smudged her make-up.

“So,” he says, in a voice that doesn’t crack, and John teases him that he’s too much of a _pretty brooding heartthrob_ to smile in photographs, but for once Kit is glad he can get away with something shy and non-committal tonight; he doesn’t know if he _could_ smile, or if he did, what exactly the photographers might catch in it.

“So,” Emilia echoes, something unnecessarily breathless in her voice, and for a split second Kit thinks about just kissing her again.

“So you won’t kiss for money,” Kit says slowly, “but you’ll kiss for trolling purposes.”

Something relieved cracks in Emilia’s expression and it’s not like they have to deal with this here and now; they have time, almost too much time, and she reaches out her hand to loop fingers through his.

“Much more fun,” she tells him, and he mirrors her laugh as she pulls him to the door.


End file.
